Spiralling (out of mind, out of control)
by Emiliya Wolfe
Summary: Barty's always had trouble with too many thoughts. Add in fatherly neglect and a knack for misunderstanding cues, and he's suddenly standing on a pile of bones. WARNING: trigger for spiralling thoughts/psychosis.


QLFC round 11 - Uzumaki — Junji Ito

AN: The prompt centres around a "spiral" curse, so I took it figuratively and wrote about someone having thought spirals.

Hogwarts assignment #6, psychology: write about someone changing their behaviour to please someone.

* * *

There comes a point in your life when a little voice in your head tells you to stop.

Bartemius Crouch Jr. has not yet encountered this particular little voice.

Instead, he feels as though he is a leaf dancing on the wind, struggling just to keep afloat in the tornado of his mind. Sometimes, he feels detached, as if his body is a puppet to be manipulated by others. Sometimes, it's easier to do as he's told than to rebel against his thoughts.

He stands over the bones of his father, and wonders how it has come to this.

* * *

Barty looks at his O.W.L. paper and begins to panic.

The sand in the hourglass is running out, and the spaces left for him to write answers are as blank as they were when he began the test. He's already had to vanish the ink twice now, the steady dripping causing his classmates to throw him dirty looks.

The problem isn't that he doesn't know the answers.

The problem is that he knows too many.

 _Describe the effects of a Polyjuice Potion_.

The easy answer would be that it transforms your body and voice into that of another for exactly one hour. But something in Barty rebels against going for the easy option. He quickly dismisses it with disdain, daydreaming of the number of effects he could find. What if you accidentally added the essence of an animal, a Giant, a Centaur? The effects would be very different — Barty knows his father apprehended a criminal thanks to the wolf tail permanently affixed to his body. The man had kept the teeth too, and his father had to stay in St Mungo's for weeks because of the hybrid bites. And what if you overdose on Polyjuice? Would you stay stuck in the other person's body? Would it become like poison, your body rejecting the unknown?

Barty shuddered as he imagined being stuck in someone else's body for the rest of his life, unable to associate his mind and body until the end of his days. Or worse, maybe the other person's mind would slowly creep in until Barty ceased to exist altogether. What would the Ministry do, if they found a clone of Rabastan Lestrange, for example? Would Rabastan's father get into trouble for not declaring a twin? In that case, the effects of a Polyjuice would become long-reaching indeed.

But there isn't enough space in those five lines for all of the effects of the Polyjuice Potion, and so Barty stays stuck, wondering whether he should pick and choose, or whether he will fail the exam altogether. The seconds tick by in sync with his dripping quill, and he wonders if his mind has warped the sound to beat in time with the ink, or whether it's one of those coincidences of fate that appear all over Hogwarts.

When Flitwick tells them they have only a quarter of an hour to finish the five pages of questions, Barty realises there's only one thing he can do. He lets himself be carried away atop those swirling thoughts and though he's scared he'll lose himself to the thoughts, to the stupid school system, he's even more scared that his father will throw him out for failing.

Almost unconsciously, he begins to write.

* * *

'It's disgraceful, really,' Bartemius Crouch Sr. continues, angrily attacking his roast. The beef knows better than to put up a fight against the formidable man and tears itself with ease. Barty is one part fascinated and one part afraid that he will one day become that steak.

He imagines his skin ripping, tearing to reveal the soft tender flesh of one young and unproven and he shudders, resisting the urge to push away his own plate. Perhaps he can convince Winky to snatch away the meat when Father isn't looking. In the meantime, he stabs a Yorkshire pudding. Soft. Compliant. Safe. The Yorkshire pudding is much like Barty's mother, with her honeyed tone and consoling words. By the time Barty emerges from his reverie, his father's rant is in full swing.

'Auror Alice Longbottom is a good-for-nothing dissenter. _Fearmonger?_ _Me?_ As if the population isn't afraid enough! The audacity! The cheek! We need stronger measures against these Death Eaters; can't she see that? We'll have no Aurors left by the end of the month if we continue to rein in our forces! And as if that isn't enough, she'll cost me my promotion!'

Alice Longbottom. The name stirs something in Barty's memory, his brain flitting from thought to thought, from perfectly captured scene to perfectly captured scene. _There_. Not Alice Longbottom, when he had just started Hogwarts, but Alice Fawley. A nice enough person. She had shown Barty to the Charms classroom when he got to the Great Hall a little later than the others his first year. And Longbottom… that must be Frank Longbottom. Rumours had run amok about Alice Fawley and Longbottom long before Barty paid them any attention.

'What good are words, let me ask you? Action. Results. That's the only thing that matters in this world. The how and why are not important. Only the end.' With that declaration, Bartemius Crouch Sr. slams a hand on the table to emphasise his words, collects his hat and jacket, and Floos back to the Ministry. That's the only thing that matters nowadays.

Barty's mother gives the barest hint of a sigh and waves a hand, sweeping the dishes into the kitchen. Absentmindedly, she ruffles Barty's hair on the way out, but he hardly notices. He's too busy lost in a new fantasy of living up to his father's expectations.

* * *

Barty's not sure how it got this far. He's not even sure how he feels about it. The only thing he's sure of is that his dad will be proud.

 _Murder is wrong_.

That lesson has been ingrained in his mind for as long as he can remember, one of the two cardinal rules: killers deserve to die and the ends justify the means.

Bellatrix laughs and laughs when Rodolphus hesitantly suggests they put them out of their misery. Barty doesn't bother to tell him that if he has to ask, then he doesn't know his wife at all. Bellatrix loves games and puzzles, and that would be ending this one too soon. Barty doesn't mind. For once, he and Bellatrix are in agreement.

 _Murder is wrong._

But the Longbottoms are now safely out of the way, with no one the wiser. Barty hasn't broken his father's rules and yet he has removed the only obstacle in the way of Bartemius Crouch Sr.'s advancement to Minister of Magic. Better yet, no one else in the Auror Department appears to disagree with his father so vehemently. They will be allowed to use Unforgivables on Death Eaters, on murderers, and the irony is not lost on Barty.

There was no other way, he thinks. He's not a Death Eater, but he has now collaborated with three, and he's not sure how he's supposed to feel. Something deep inside him is screaming to be heard, wriggling in the depths of his mind. But that is all drowned out by cold logic, his thoughts picking up patterns and weaving them into plans.

Alice and Frank Longbottom were untouchable. Thrice defied Lord Voldemort, renowned Aurors with a young child. They were so high on the protection list that only Lily and James Potter ranked higher. At least, that's according to Barty's father's journal that he so conveniently leaves locked up in his bedroom. Barty wouldn't have been able to get this far without outside help. He couldn't turn to his father; that would defeat the purpose of dealing with Alice Longbottom in the first place. So he turned to the only other source of help available to him: Rabastan Lestrange.

Barty decides he's quite proud of his handiwork, in the end. After all, he has managed to get this far without tainting himself with the Dark Mark the Death Eaters are so proud of. He has removed his father's biggest opponent. And the part of him that relishes the challenge, the song and dance of duelling and conspiracies and the Dark Arts, is happy. Father won't approve of his methods. But since when have methods ever mattered?

He casts a Scourgify on his robes, and looks to the sky. The owl he has sent to his father should be arriving any minute, explaining how Barty managed to dispose of his political rivals and capture three Death Eaters in one fell swoop. His father will arrive any minute now, and Barty feels a smile tugging at his lips, letting the imagined - and expected - words of approval wash over him.

They've been a long time coming.

* * *

Barty thinks back on his life and wonders how he could have been so naive. He supposes that this failing can be attributed to the weakness of youth. His father was never worthy of admiration. Instead of praising Barty for doing what he had always advocated, his father locked him up in Azkaban, too fearful of the reality of what had to be done (weird phrasing?). In the end, his soft-toned mother was the one to remind Barty of his worth. His father all but murdered her, putting her in Azkaban in Barty's place.

And that was breaking one of the cardinal rules.

Barty now serves a better purpose. The Dark Lord may be many things, but never a hypocrite. All is permitted and all is encouraged. Instead of dismissing Barty's ever changing thoughts, the Dark Lord encourages them, pushes them to the very limits of Barty's capabilities. And Barty loves it. A meandering conversation about Harry Potter led to an elaborate plan of Barty's making. He has received the Mark for it. And he will see it succeed.

His father lived the rest of his life as a failure. Allowing Quirrell to teach at Hogwarts, allowing someone so _soft_ , so _stupid_ as Fudge into office. Barty doesn't know how he ever looked up to him. Sometimes, Barty hates him so much that he hates himself by extension, and he wonders what he ever did for the Dark Lord to deserve saving.

A branch breaks in the distance, bringing Barty back to the present. He shakes his head and takes a swig from the pouch at his belt, shivering with the effects of the potion. His job tonight isn't over yet. So Barty scoffs and buries the bones, making sure the earth is compact around them. And if he stamps with more force than necessary, well, the end result will be the same.


End file.
